By Emily Torem

Jesse Weaver’s “The Artist Needs a Wife,” slated for its world premiere at the side project theatre this week, is not a play to see if you’re feeling low. It’s about “trying to imagine what life would be like if you were a complete and utter failure,” says the Virginia-born playwright whose career is anything but—his last production at the side project, where he is an ensemble member, “On My Parents’ One Hundredth Wedding Anniversary,” drew critical raves. The plot of “Artist” centers on “fairly fucking old” washed-up artists: Mott, a DJ and Freud, a painter, along with Freud’s discarded muse, known only as “Whore.” The characters live in a futuristic world of Weaver’s imagination. “When I started writing it, I didn’t know much about DJing. It looked so cool and so hip. I was wondering: this art form seems so new and so uniquely of our time, what is it going to be like in 50 years? Are these guys going to be mixing in old folks homes in 2070?” We chatted with Weaver over the phone and via email from Virginia—he’s currently living in Ireland, where an earlier version of this play appeared at the Dublin Fringe Fest—to get some insight into his work.

What inspired you to write a play about failure?
I was in my mid-twenties [when I started writing it]. Living in my friend’s basement apartment—especially when you’re working in Chicago theater where everyone has to have a day job—there’s this feeling of, “Oh my god, I’m going to be 50 and doing [this] the rest of my life. In your mid-twenties, you’ve been sort of written a blank check. [You’ve been told] you’re very talented and you’re very cool and the world’s going to fall at your feet, and then you [learn] it’s not going to and you start to feel sorry for yourself and are going to end up this crusty old man in the basement—that was a personal feeling that sort of stoked the play. I started sharing these thoughts and found I wasn’t the only one with those feelings. Read the rest of this entry »

Donald Blair and Chris Cantelmi (foreground)/Photo: Johnny Knight

Without even knowing the rest of playwright Brett Neveu’s canon—something I’m loathe to admit given how cherished this homegrown Chicago playwright is—I see “The Last Barbecue,” first presented in Chicago nine years ago under the direction of Ann Filmer and currently being revived by 16^th Street Theater in Berwyn (with Filmer once again at the helm), as something of an exercise and experiment, a play whose ultimate value may have been more beneficial to an up-and-coming playwright than to—dare I say—his audience, especially nine years later.

At its basic, this eighty-minute chamber piece centers around a family (mother, father, son, wife and old girlfriend) and their interactions at a barbecue that never starts and around a reunion that we never actually see. As in Chekhov, the characters don’t necessarily speak with each other as much as they talk to and past one another.  As with Beckett, characters are referenced but never appear, and activities are prepped (a croquet match) but never begin. Read the rest of this entry »

Here’s the press release from Writers’:

Writers’ Theatre announces 2009/10 season, to feature works by Tom Stoppard, Noel Coward,  Tennessee Williams and John Henry Redwood with directors Michael Halberstam, David Cromer, Ron OJ Parson and Jim Corti

Glencoe, IL-Writers’ Theatre Artistic Director Michael Halberstam and Executive Director Kathryn M. Lipuma announce the company’s 18th season, which includes Tom Stoppard’s comedic masterpiece Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, directed by Michael Halberstam; Noel Coward’s musical revue, Oh Coward! to be performed in Writers’ most intimate venue; The Old Settler by John Henry Redwood, directed by Ron OJ Parson; and Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, directed by David Cromer. Read the rest of this entry »

Steve Haggard, Marcus Trushinski (top)

RECOMMENDED

“Oh, you’re going to that patriotic baseball show,” said a colleague when I mentioned I was heading out to Writers Theater for the world premiere of “Old Glory.” “Write one for the Gipper.” Yes, the confusion was understandable, given that this show is being promoted with a picture of a baseball trophy and sports a title that is a traditional moniker for the American Flag. Of course, once you know that this is the latest from Chicago playwright Brett Neveu, that clues you in that there is more here than meets the eye. Much more.

A war play, family story and crime mystery all rolled into one, Neveu unfolds his carefully constructed narrative one flap of a flag at a time amongst three pairs of characters who are coming at the death of a soldier from different vantage points: a father cornering his dead son’s commanding officer in a bar, a mother interacting with her dead son’s best friend, and two soldiers from different worlds, both geographically and psychologically, constantly confronting each other as much if not more than the enemy.

Yes, this is the Iraqi war, but what is so haunting about this show is that it could virtually word for word have come from the Vietnam War era when I witnessed firsthand virtually identical dialogue encountered here. And by showing the effect of a solitary soldier’s death both on the battlefield as well as on the homefront, the ethos of war is etymologically examined in a profound way by having the audience share in the pain and loss of all involved. On another level entirely, the show is a mystery where puzzle pieces are revealed one at a time, the audience coming to cathartic epiphanies along with the characters.

As you would expect from Writers Theatre, the ensemble acting is absolutely first-rate, and under William Brown’s direction, your heart will pound and then break during some of these emotional confrontations of helplessness in the face of utter destruction and seemingly senseless loss; some go through the motions of life trying to move on until they fall apart, others are simply so numbed by the shock that they drown themselves in beer. The soldiers retreat to their tent, anxious to remove the horrific images of the dead count of the day with drug-laced liquor and by pretending they are comic-book action heroes.

Aside from how compellingly and refreshingly Neveau unspools his yarn—the entire show is a relentlessly streamlined ninety minutes with no intermission—he resists the temptation to make this a political period piece with discussions of the pros and cons of why America went to Iraq in the first place: this is a show about trying to pick up the pieces for all of us now that we as a country have made that journey, for better or worse. (Dennis Polkow)

“Old Glory” plays through March 29 at Writers Theatre, 325 Tudor Court, Glencoe, (847)242-6000. $40-$65.

What makes Chicago’s theater world special? We picked up the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly for clues. In the cover story, “CSI” star William Petersen explains his decision to leave his role as one of the top paid actors in television, earning a rumored $600,000 an episode, to move back to Chicago and Chicago theater: “It was too safe for me at this point. So I needed to try and break that, and the way to do that, for me, is the theater.” EW went on to credit Petersen for much of the show’s success, notably bringing a theatrical ensemble philosophy to play in its production. Or consider the runaway success of Steppenwolf’s “August: Osage County,” which transferred to Broadway,  receiving critical acclaim and multiple Tony Awards, not by shaking it up with Broadway “names” but instead by virtually transferring the Steppenwolf production intact, with the addition of lead producer and fellow Chicagoan Steve Traxler. What makes Chicago theater—or for that matter, Chicago dance or any other form of performance practiced on our stages—special? We’d contend it’s the power of the ensemble, the spirit of collaboration that champions artistic risk-taking and subordinates the commercial. And so, in that spirit, the critical ensemble responsible for Newcity’s ongoing stage coverage presents our take on the most influential people on and offstage in Chicago. Read the rest of this entry »

You’ve seen storefronts like this, usually located under the El. The interior is speckled with a layer of grim and tepid aspirations, the worn-out furnishings a sad grace note. Every time you pass by, the place looks empty save for a guy or two behind the counter. How do they stay in business, you wonder? Most don’t. That’s the broad overlay in Tracy Letts’ new melancholic comedy (at the Steppenwolf) which he has set in Chicago—the city where this recent Pulitzer-winner has lived most of his adult life, and perhaps more importantly, the city where he became a playwright. Like Brett Neveu’s recent “Gas for Less” (at the Goodman), “Superior Donuts” presents the little guy as endangered species, fighting off the encroachment of chain branding and impersonal transactions. Arthur Przybyszewski (Michael McKean) is the proprietor of said donut shop, an aging hippie so withdrawn from life that he retreats into a haze of pot smoke whenever reality punches through the glass door of his store. McKean’s performance is enigmatic—a resigned sigh that only begins to suggest Arthur’s state of mind. The role is bookended by Franco Wicks (Jon Michael Hill), the young, frenetic African-American Arthur hires as his assistant. Franco is ambitious and restless, but his inner life is just as mysterious—both he and Arthur are characters in search of meaning, and their uneasy co-existence mirrors the ethnic jostling of the neighborhood itself. (Yasen Peyankov has a terrific time as the Russian-born owner of an electronics store where he offers “the personal touch. And Croatian pornography.”) I like the way Letts parses the idea of disinterest-as-racism. The debate is false, but the spirit behind it is true. That dichotomy is everywhere in this production (directed by Tina Landau), where the dialogue rhythms don’t synch up with the real world, even if the sentiments do. You’re very much aware that you’re watching a play, and it’s only when Robert Maffia strolls onstage, playing a bookie in a cashmere coat, that things abruptly snap into place. Suddenly you’re immersed in the drama at hand. Landau’s pacing is deliberate, perhaps to a fault—the production includes a protracted stage fight that is so plainly fake in its execution that it becomes theoretical—but Letts has an ear for idioms that I really admire. “Look at you, all worked up over some female lady,” Franco tells Arthur, and it’s the kind of throw-away line you remember more than anything else. (Nina Metz)

At Steppenwolf Theatre, 1650 North Halsted, (312)335-1650. Thu-Fri 7:30pm/Sat-Sun 3pm & 7:30pm/Tue-Wed 7:30pm. $20-$68. Through August 24.

It’s one thing to fetishize the good old days, but this might be the most melancholy example yet. Inspired by an actual mom-and-pop gas station on the North Side that fell victim to market forces and changing neighborhood tastes, the themes that arise in Brett Neveu’s latest play might as well be outlined in the neon light that promises “Gas for Less.” Nobody likes change. Gentrification is a bitch. In today’s economy, the underdog is the dying dog. Dexter Bullard’s production at the Goodman has a sprawling, all-day-long quality to it, and anyone who has logged time behind a retail counter will recognize the sensation. (Tom Burch’s set is fantastic, a lived-in diorama stocked with old school mini-mart details.) But it’s like watching an ice cube melt; authentic and terribly boring. A photo can suggest an entire world within its borders; the three-dimensional reality of actors on a stage requires something more. Neveu captures the overall picture, but there’s not much life beneath the surface. (Nina Metz)

At Goodman Theatre, 170 N. Dearborn, (312)443-3800.  This production is now closed.

Like a shoddy campaign run on cigarette fumes and Rolaids, nothing quite comes together in Brett Neveu’s musical about Chicago politics at Strawdog Theatre. Set on election night, family and campaign workers assemble to sweat out the returns for Cook County president. The hotel-as-election-night-fort has always been a bizarro biosphere, and I like that Neveu stuck everyone in it for the duration. But don’t look for much insight into Windy City politicking. We never actually see the candidate, which is fine because his carefully shellacked wife (played ably by Anne Sheridan Smith) provides all we need to know about the aging man upstairs who can barely conceive of a life booted out of office. Nor does the piece make a solid case for itself as a musical. Occasionally Mikhail Fiksel’s score has a noir-ish feel to it, but overall there aren’t enough trained voices here to carry it off. Or at least sing on key. Either way, the music doesn’t capture a sense that Chicago’s political scene is a skeezy breed unto itself. Only one number, with a quartet of besuited men singing about “politics as usual,” makes it halfway out of the gate, a pleasantly jaded amalgam of clichés. What’s more Chicago than that? (Nina Metz)

At the Strawdog Theatre, 3829 N. Broadway, (773)525-6797. This production is now closed.

A barrage of bad English accents tumble forth from this new comedy, plus a Scottish brogue thicker than worsted wool. In fact, everything is intentionally bad in this spoof of the country manor mystery—“a wildly costumed Piccadilly drama”—where the stiff upper lips are matched only by the number of eyes popping out of their sockets. And for the first twenty minutes or so, it’s like the best of Carol Burnett. Every British cliché is skewered here. A host introduces the play, “Masterpiece Theatre”-style, like John Houseman’s deranged cousin recently let out from the cellar. The story unfolds on a two-dimensional set that is supposed to look cheap and cheesy (to suit the narrative), and if you’re looking for gags aplenty, this is certainly the place to be. But don’t even ask for a plot synopsis. Something about a ghostly menace on the property, and the seduction of a young lady who literally blends into the furniture. “What’s that I smell?” burls the gamekeeper, played by Chris Hainsworth, as he strolls through the library of the big house. “Why it’s the unmistakable stench of the filthy rich.” Hainsworth attacks the role like he just wandered off the set of “Braveheart.” It’s a very funny performance, though the script—penned by Lisa Dillman, Rebecca Gilman, and Brett Neveu—can’t sustain its breakneck pace for very long. (Nicholas Minas and Noah Simon co-direct the Blindfaith Theatre production.) “He is a man among men—if the men are without penises,” was my favorite one-liner. But there aren’t enough of these gems to go around. (Nina Metz)

At the Storefront Theater, 66 E. Randolph, (312)742-8497. This production is now closed.

RECOMMENDED

Brett Neveu’s newest play (in a world premiere at A Red Orchid) gently suggests you choose your own interpretation of the contents therein. It’s not entirely clear what the play is about; Neveu isn’t offering pat answers, at any rate. Don’t take that as a drawback, but don’t walk in expecting a tidy narrative, either. Over the span of ninety minutes, the scenes cut back and forth between a training center that preps American travelers for the possibility of kidnapping overseas, and a coffee shop where the would-be victims—three women, professional types—meet during training breaks. In a broad sense, the play deals with the underlying feeling of a world gone crazy since 9/11, but Neveu is more specific in his focus. All politics are local, and I suppose all problems are local, too. Unless there is a terrorist directly in your face, it’s more likely that your own personal guilt, fury and life dissatisfaction will churn your stomach in knots. Is there such a thing as a tragedy of manners? Consider the things we do to one another in the name of polite conversation. The judgments that get passed off as friendly advice; the probing questions that imply there’s something wrong with you if you don’t want to share. The coffee klatch as a game of human Pac-Man—your fellow Americans as giant orbs with jaws that never stop flapping. At least, that’s what I got out of the show, directed by Edward Sobel with precise attention to Neveu’s banal rhythms of speech. The three women are terrific: Kirsten Fitzgerald, who is perfectly too loud and too much in her orange sherbet sweater poncho; Jennifer Engstrom, a brittle, high-strung yuppie in stiletto pumps; and Mierka Girten, whose buttoned-up, quiet personality masks a suppressed, thundering of rage. Everything is a digression, but there are two mini-anecdotes tucked in the script—one about a rape and murder at a nursing home, the other about a rabid dog attack—and couched within the play’s larger ambiguity, these monologues emerge as bright beacons of storytelling. (Nina Metz)

At A Red Orchid Theatre, 1531 North Wells, (312)943-8722.  This production is now closed.